


Nutcracker Sweet

by bookjunkiecat



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Christmas Fluff, Greg takes his granddaughter to the ballet, Greg's granddaughter ships it, M/M, Mycroft Holmes: still crushin' after all these years, Retirement!lock, The Nutcracker, alternating pov, meet cute, or meet-again-cute
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-23
Updated: 2019-12-23
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:01:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21924076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookjunkiecat/pseuds/bookjunkiecat
Summary: Years after he saw him last, Mycroft runs into Greg, and finds him just as compelling as ever.
Relationships: Mycroft & Greg, Mycroft/Greg, Mystrade - Relationship
Comments: 32
Kudos: 185
Collections: Mystrade Holiday 2019





	Nutcracker Sweet

**Author's Note:**

> I've been toying with this fic for two years, never getting it quite right. I'm not entirely happy with how it turned out, but I wanted to share some Christmas sweetness and fluff with y'all.

It was the sort of day which leant itself to postcards and Instagram photos. The sun shone bravely in the face of the persistent cold, and a fluffy layer of snow had fallen, blanketing the city. Colourful holiday décor hung from every lamppost and street sign, and store windows drew the eye with dazzling displays.

Ears ringing from the cacophony of holiday songs and carols emanating from every storefront, Mycroft hurried out of the magic, snowy day and into the theatre. There was the hum of talking from the considerable holiday crowd, and the orchestra was just filing into place, but overall it was a sanctuary compared to the noise on the street.

This close to Christmas he counted himself lucky that there had been a ticket to spare for a matinee performance of _The Nutcracker_. The seating was rapidly filling, and Mycroft scanned the rows while he manoeuvered the stairs, murmuring apologies as he bumped into people. Ah, there was his row! 

Sidestepping already seated patrons as deftly as possible, Mycroft edged down the row, one eye on the seats, the other on his ticket. This must be his spot just ahead, right between a woman most inappropriately dressed in a multi-coloured and sequined cocktail dress, and—

“Detective Inspector,” Mycroft exclaimed in delighted shock, “How unexpected!”

Surprised warmth flooded the face of the other man, as he looked up from the program he had been gazing at. “Mycroft!” He stood, looking as if he was prepared to embrace Mycroft, and then seemed to think better of it, running a sheepish hand over the back of his neck, before quickly sticking it out.

Mycroft shook his hand, thrilling as always to the touch of that warm, firm hand on his own. “It’s good to see you, Detective.”

“Not _Detective_ any longer,” Greg reminded him, clasping Mycroft's hand in both of his. There were new lines on his face, which only served to make him more handsome than ever. A fresh layer of white glistened over the silver hair Mycroft remembered so fondly. His warm brown eyes and sweet, mischievous smile were the same. 

“Ah, yes,” Mycroft said, “ forgive me, I’ve grown foolish with old age. You obtained the rank of DCI some years back. Or is it Chief Super Lestrade now?” He glanced behind him, where impatient looking people were eager to make their way down the row. “I’d best sit,” he murmured, and seated himself next to Greg, who had resumed his own seat.

“I did make DCI,” Greg agreed, “but I actually retired last year.” He smiled, as devastatingly handsome as he’d been in his fifties, his forties, even in his dark-haired thirties, when they'd first crossed paths. 

If Mycroft’s memory served—and it did—Greg Lestrade had turned sixty-two in August. Just three years older than himself, yet somehow more vital, more manly, more delicious than a man his age had any right to be. Mycroft was astounded to realize his infatuation with the man hadn’t faded one whit, despite time and distance. The appeal which Greg had held for him had remained steadfast for more than a quarter century. 

“More time to spend doing what I love—like taking this young miss to see the ballet, eh, sweetheart?" Greg turned toward the young lady who had been sitting quietly next to him, mostly unnoticed by Mycroft until that point. She was perhaps twelve or thirteen, wearing a green tartan shirtdress and black velvet leggings; curly chestnut hair peeked out from the edges of a green velvet hijab. Her eyes were dark--darker than Greg’s-- and shadowed by short, curly lashes.

“This is my grand-daughter, Zahra,” Greg introduced, putting one hand on her back, “Zahra, this is an old friend of mine, Mycroft Holmes.”

“I know who he is, Gee,” she rejoined, with a very adolescent roll of her eyes, accompanied by a smile which positively screamed that she was a Lestrade. “His Wikipedia entry is linked to yours.” She turned her bright regard on Mycroft, “You’re Sherlock’s brother, and you used to work in the government for the Ministry of Transport, right? But then you left when there was a scandal about the insane asylum on Sherrinford Island--”

Both men winced, and Zahra abruptly stumbled to a stop, going red. She’d obviously realized what she’d been about to say, and how insensitive it was. “Um, sorry, Mr Holmes.”

“Thank you for your apology, Zahra,” Mycroft said graciously, “I’m sure you meant no harm.” His smile was rueful, “You’re far more courteous than your elders.” The very public fallout of his disastrous handling of Sherrinford had been screamed about in the papers, online, and very audibly discussed where he was very much meant to hear. He shook off the memories. Thankfully that was all very much the past. “Now tell me, is this your first ballet?”

Launching herself enthusiastically into conversation, Zahra assured him that she was very familiar with the ballet. Apparently her Gee took her often throughout the year (ditto for plays and even the opera, apparently) but seeing  _ The Nutcracker _ every December was their special treat. “Just the two of us,” she’d said, smirking slightly that her younger siblings weren’t invited. 

Mycroft very nearly apologized for interrupting their one-on-one time. Something made him hold back from the comment, and he was rewarded by Greg smiling at him as the lights blinked, signaling the imminent rise of the curtain. "Thanks for chatting with her," he whispered, "I know kids aren't your thing."

Unable to respond without annoying their neighbors, Mycroft settled in to enjoy the performance. Time enough to correct that misconception. Perhaps Greg and Zahra would care to join him for tea after the ballet. At the thought of getting to spend time with the other man, Mycroft's heart sped up. Smiling, he turned his attention to the stage, thrillingly aware of the warmth of Greg's arm resting against his, their knees brushing. 

The beauty of Tchaikovsky's evocative music (Sherlock sneered at the composer but Mycroft had a weakness for him) swept Mycroft away. It was almost startling when the lights came up for the intermission. Along with nearly everyone else, the three of them stood, stretching. "Can I treat you both to a quick drink?" Mycroft asked. 

"I'd love a cider,” Greg agreed, steering Zahra ahead of him. “Need the ladies?”

“I’m good, thanks,” Mycroft replied mildly, and relished their matching grins.

“Be right back,” Zahra said, starting toward the line already forming. She groaned, “Unless I’m still waiting for a stall when the ballet is over. Get me a Coke?”

Jostled by the merry crowd, the two men managed to secure their drinks and found a spot against the wall where they could keep an eye out for Zahra. “She’s delightful,” Mycroft commented, sipping his red wine. “The eldest?”

“Second eldest. She’s got a sister, Faiza, who’s taking a gap year. They have three younger brothers, scamps, the lot of them. Ben and Sadia have their hands full. My daughter Emma, has one son, Greg,” he smiled bashfully in acknowledgement at his embarrassed pride at having his grandson named after him. “He’s in his final year at the police academy--hoping to get a job near his mum in Colchester. They’ve always been close, the two of them. Brenda and I gave them all the help they’d accept, but Emma was always independent. She never let being a single teen mum stop her. She’s practically running the ad firm where she started out as a temp.” 

Mycroft was sincere, “You must be incredibly proud, Greg--your family has done well.”

He smiled at Mycroft, eyes warm, “I am,” he said simply. “Trust me, after years with the Met, I know just how lucky I am to have the family I do.” He paused, and Mycroft braced himself, guessing what was coming. “And you? How’s the family?”

“Confirmed bachelor, I’m afraid,” Mycroft said lightly, spying Zahra and hoping she would arrive before Greg asked the inevitable. “Never married and no children.” He was unhappily aware that Greg was seconds away from asking if he’d ever reconciled with his parents, if he and Sherlock had kept in touch. The answers were no and yes, but he didn’t suppose he would get away with being so curt.

“No one...special in your life?” Greg asked, sounding surprised. “No one to argue over what to watch on telly? Someone to fill in the crossword puzzle before you can get to it?” His eyes were intense, and Mycroft felt warm, flustered. “Got a hot young thing stashed away in some penthouse suite, waiting for you to get back to them?”

Mycroft coughed lightly on the sip of wine he’d taken. “Lestrade,” he said, voice raw from the tannins in the wine. He felt a blush suffuse his face. “A hot young--? No. Assuredly not.”

Zahra fetched up beside them, already talking, complaining about the ridiculous line for the loo. Gulping down her Coke, she pelted Mycroft with questions--she was apparently aware that he’d studied at Oxford--one of the universities she was interested in. 

Mycroft was impressed. “You have your plans for the future already in place, I see. Most commendable. What area of study are you interested in?”

He knew he was being a coward, genuine though his interest was. He was avoiding Greg’s eyes, very aware of the other man’s regard. The bell rang, summoning them back for the rest of the performance. Mycroft trailed after the Lestrades, mind on the aborted conversation. Would he have had the courage to admit that he had no interest in a, dear God, ‘hot young thing’? Rather, his eye had long ago been caught and held by one man.

  
  


* * *

Face serene, Greg faced the stage, unmindful of the beauty unfolding there. His awareness centered on the man sitting beside him, long legs neatly crossed at the knee, elegantly shod foot occasionally brushing Greg’s leg. Mycroft Holmes. Christ.

There had been a fair few fellas in his youth, but once he joined the force it seemed wise to focus on dating women. Then Brenda had come along; and shortly afterward, Emma, whose existence seemed to dictate the need to man up and get married. That hadn’t proved to be a particularly good reason for marriage, as they’d found to their shared dismay, but they’d made a pretty good fist of it for the kid’s sake. But job stresses, infidelity and indifference had made for an unhappy marriage.

When they finally quit trying to cobble together a working marriage, Greg had discovered that the man who had long fascinated him, Mycroft Holmes, had an even bigger attraction for him now. He could face the fact that he had a hell of a quiet crush, but he wasn’t an idiot (despite what Sherlock said). There was a huge gulf between the two of them. Probably too wide to ever be crossed even by a real friendship. So he took the occasional drink at The Diogenes, or a shared late-night smoke at a crime scene for what it was, and set about finding happiness elsewhere.

No one had ever come close enough to tempting him into a serious relationship for Greg to give up his hard-earned independence. He’d focused on his career and his family and he had no regrets. Even if he wouldn’t mind having someone to warm his back at night, someone to chuckle over emails from the grandkids with, someone to spoil at birthdays and Christmasses. Someone to kiss until they were breathless. Someone to remind him just how much he’d always loved sex.

His hopeful brain was piping up that there was a prime candidate sitting right next to him. Greg shushed his brain and took Zahra’s hand in his, giving it a little squeeze. She was nearly fourteen, and he was just glad she was still willing to spend time with an old man, wasn’t too cool to keep up their yearly tradition. His words to Mycroft had been sincere--he was really lucky in his family. He’d never be left alone. But he couldn’t live in their pockets either. They had their own lives. His life was pretty great, but it might be getting a little...stale?

Maybe it was time to see about building some new relationships.

Squeezing back, she flashed a quick smile his way. Smiling in gratitude for his blessings, Greg watched the rest of the ballet with a peaceful heart. He’d come to a decision and he knew what he would do next, for good or ill.

* * *

  
  


Crikey, Gee and “please do call me Mycroft, my dear” were effing adorable. Zahra snuck her iPhone out of her pocket and under cover of the table sent an emoji filled text off to Faiza. The restaurant they were at was far posher than anyplace she’d ever been in her life, and it was clear Mycroft was a familiar face, given how effusively the snooty French maitre d’ had greeted him. They’d been shown to a cozy alcove, half hidden from the bustling dining room by swagged chintz curtains and lush potted palms. 

When they’d left the flat earlier that day, she hadn’t had any idea that she would be witnessing a real-life romance. She and Faiza had gossiped with Auntie Em about Gee and his famous friends. Zahra had noticed in the last few years just how warmly and admiringly he always spoke about Mycroft Holmes, so it wasn’t really a surprise that he was smiling at the taller man with shining eyes. It _ was _ a surprise that he’d done something about it.

Following the ballet, Zahra had nearly danced with impatience, eager to flee to the ladies and give them a little time alone. She figured if she weren’t there maybe Gee would at least ask him for his mobile number so they could go do boring old people things together. Instead they’d been trapped in the crowded aisle, waiting for everyone else to gather up their belongings and their kids and exit.

Gee hadn’t even waited until they were in the lobby before he went into action. Suddenly all low voice, warm eyes and charm, he’d asked Mycroft if he wanted to join them for an early dinner. Zahra, for the first time, saw why Great-auntie Georgiana talked about “the Lestrade charm offensive.”

Gee was so focused on the other man that he hadn’t even twigged to her using her mobile at the table. Zahra tried to project an air of being invisible, hoping it would work. Personally she thought the idea of, ew, sex, at Gee’s age was  _ gross, _ but the way he was smiling under his lashes at Mycroft was adorable. Judging by the dazed look on Mycroft’s face, he was employing the look to good effect.

Mumbling an excuse about the ladies, she fled the table, grinning gleefully--as soon as she was out of the dining area she was  _ so  _ sending a SnapChat to Faiza! 

* * *

  
  


Greg hadn’t even been drinking, aside from his one cider, yet he felt flushed, ecstatic. Although he hadn’t said so in so many words, he was flirting with Mycroft. And Mycroft was flirting back.

A bit taken aback at first, Mycroft had flashed him a startled look. When Greg, hoping he hadn’t lost it, gave him a slow, warm smile, Mycroft had gone pink around the ears. Looking away, he had appeared to shake himself. When he glanced back, finding Greg still smiling at him, a sudden look of puckish amusement had come over his patrician features.

Too low for Zahra to hear, he had leaned in and murmured, “You ought to be cautious with that look, Greg. It’s most...suggestive.”

Greg, breathless with the kind of high he hadn’t felt in years, leaned on one elbow, easing into Mycroft’s personal space. “Oh?” He murmured, rolling his lips together, dampening them with his tongue, “What d’you think I’m suggesting? Cuz I assure you it’s very innocent.”

Assuring him that his eyes stated otherwise, Mycroft leaned his chin on one hand, his lovely eyes on Greg’s. “While my powers of observation are rusty, your actions might suggest to some that you’d welcome attentions of a romantic nature.”

“Not only welcome,” Greg said honestly, glancing away long enough to clock that Zahra was still lingering in the corridor leading to the cloakroom, hiding from them. Satisfied she was safe, and not coming back, he returned his focus to Mycroft. “Not only welcome,” he repeated, putting one hand over Mycroft’s on the table, “Eager. I’ll put all my cards on the table, Mycroft, because I figure we’ve both wasted enough time. I’ve had a thing for you for bloody years. We’re not working together, I’m not married any longer...I want a relationship with you. Would you like that?”

Mycroft’s eyes went soft and brilliant all at once. He put his other hand on top of Greg’s, warm grasp firm, his thumb brushing softly, tantalizingly over Greg’s littlest finger. “I’d love it,” he said simply, and the two men sat smiling into one another’s eyes, the future a dazzling glint, winking alluringly.

Not even Mycroft Holmes noticed a teary Zahra snap a quick picture as they shared a sweet first kiss.


End file.
